Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (46 page)

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Located on the eastern side of the Tower of London, between Royal Mint Street, previously Rosemary Lane, and East Smithfield Street, is the splendid edifice of the Royal Mint, manufacturer of every coin used in this country. The Mint, as it is colloquially called, was initially housed in a much smaller building, but six years ago, in 1882, its premises were significantly enlarged to accommodate the latest mintage machinery.

Upon entering Royal Mint Street, Kosminski feels the pace of the exhausted pony slacken. Heartlessly whipping the animal, he maintains speed, however, hurrying past the Royal Mint and then East Smithfield Street. Galloping down Lower Tower Hill, with the Tower of London on his right and St Katharine’s Dock on his left, Kosminski approaches his ultimate destination, the River Thames, where, moored at the bottom of Trengate Stairs, beneath a temporary access ramp leading from Lower Tower Hill to the partially built northern tower of Tower Bridge, is a small boat, its lone oarsman tensely waiting for Kosminski so that he can transport him down the river to a larger vessel and eventual freedom.

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Passing the Royal Mint and East Smithfield Street, and reducing the distance between Kosminski and himself, Holmes is suddenly forced to halt his pony as a cumbersome haulage wagon, laden with heavy blocks of
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Cornish granite, snaps its rear axle and sheds a large quantity of its load on the street in front of him. Concerned that time is of the essence, Holmes abandons the pony and cart and continues his pursuit on foot.

In order to reach the small boat, his sole means of escape, Kosminski must travel alongside and then beneath the temporary access ramp. Finding each side of the ramp completely blocked by an array of building materials, he is left with no other option but to carry on up the ramp. This he does, straight through a group of labourers, hurling them aside. Reaching the top of the gradient, he drives through the first of two arches, entering the spacious square tower, cluttered with an assortment of tools and scaffold boards.

Driven towards the other, but as yet, unfinished open arch, and seeing nothing but the leaden sky and the murky water of the River Thames lapping at the foundation of the tower some hundred feet below, the exhausted pony skids to a halt and, in doing so, pitches Kosminski from the cart.

Thrown backwards onto the dusty flagstoned floor of the tower, Kosminski groans, clutching his right thigh. Slowly sitting, he removes his neckerchief, strapping it around the upper part of his leg and tying it tightly. Groping about the floor, he grabs a narrow piece of wood, slipping it between the strapped neckerchief and his leg. Quickly rotating the piece of wood several times, he tightens the tourniquet even more. Satisfied that he has temporarily restricted the flow of blood from his wound, he inhales deeply and begins to withdraw the blade from his thigh.

Having run the entire length of Lower Tower Hill, Holmes halts for breath in front of the ramp, his way obstructed by seven disgruntled labourers, dusting themselves down. A burly foreman steps towards him, raising his hand, “Fink yer goin’ after ’im, d’yer?”

Holmes nods, “That is my intention, yes.”

The foreman shakes his head, “Na yer ain’t, mate. It were our noses ’e shoved in the mud.”

Holmes snaps, “Then, sir, you are extremely fortunate. A bruised pride is preferable to being butchered in the street, wouldn’t you say?”

Grasping the significance of the remark, the foreman stammers, “Butchered in the street? Yer mean...” He indicates the tower with his thumb, “’E did them six women in?”

Holmes corrects him, “Five.”

The foreman stares at Holmes suspiciously, “One fer numbers, ain’t yer? Who are yer?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Although familiar with the name, the foreman scoffs, “Oh, yeh? An’ I’m
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’Oratio Nelson.”

Stepping closer to the foreman, Holmes murmurs tenaciously, “I mean to prevent his escape and, in doing so, arrest him. Do you intend to deny me the right?”

Cowed, the foreman again indicates the tower with his thumb, “Nothin’ b’yond there but ol’ Father Thames, Mr ’Olmes.”

Holmes propounds, “A boat floats on water, does it not?”

Motivated by that one simple comment, the foreman begins to push aside the labourers, “Make way, will yer? Let the gentleman through.” He turns to Holmes, “’Ow can we ’elp, guv’nor?”

Holmes commands, “You must all remain here. But if he should emerge from the tower instead of me, forego your good manners and use the utmost force to detain him.”

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Hearing the sound of running footsteps ascending the ramp, Kosminski, gripping the bloodstained blade, limps away from the pony and cart, concealing himself behind several upright scaffold boards propped up against a wall.

Holmes hurries into view, framed by the arch and silhouetted against the sky. He pauses cautiously, allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the partial dimness inside the tower. Attracted to the pony by its snort, he sees the animal begin to noisily scrape the ground with one of its front hooves. Quickly unfastening and removing his ankle boots, he places them at the base of the arch and quietly approaches the rear of the cart. Observing Holmes through a narrow gap between the scaffold boards, Kosminski watches the detective walk past him to the vehicle. Prepared to pounce, he grips the blade tightly.

With his back to the scaffold boards, Holmes pensively fingers the wig and limp facial mask that he had dropped on the floor of the cart when he had been thrown from the vehicle. Alerted by a hurried shuffle from behind and, seeing a shadow fall across him, he turns and grips the wrist of a clenched hand, holding the blade, about to strike him. Effecting his turn, Holmes comes face to face with Kosminski. Maintaining his hold upon the Jew and ripping away his false beard, the last remnant of his disguise, Holmes stares at another face, Dr Reuben Sleeman.

Holmes smiles at him, “Most kind of you to drop in, Doctor.”

Sleeman frowns, “You expected me?”

Holmes murmurs casually, “Of course.” He punches Sleeman in the face, sending him reeling back against the scaffold boards.

Dropping the blade, Sleeman clutches his nose.

Holmes discards the false beard, “Although Dr Watson is a competent practitioner, he is hardly a notable physician. Nor is he capable of acquiring, or retaining the patronage of distinguished patients. Therefore, just over a year ago, whilst he was temporarily employed at St Mary’s Medical School, where you also lectured, you made his acquaintance and subsequently recommended a solution to revive his flagging career. You proposed a partnership, and because he had but a modicum of income, you generously offered to finance the entire venture against future profit. Watson, of course, wholeheartedly agreed to the proposition. Only a fool would have rebuffed such a God-given opportunity. But if the good doctor had taken the time to investigate your past, as I did, he would have discovered that you had only registered with the General Medical Council a few months earlier. At the belated age of fifty-six, I might add. Using falsified documents, no doubt.” He looks at Sleeman, fingering his bleeding nose, “It would appear you are experiencing some discomfort, Dr Sleeman. Or should I address you by your correct name? Professor James Moriarty.”

Attempting to ease the blood dripping from his nose, Moriarty tilts back his head and sniffs, “In addition to the injury you have inflicted on my thigh, I do believe you have broken my nose.”

Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “That was my intention. But no matter, you will live long enough to hang.” He expounds further, “And the true motive behind your seemingly benevolent gesture to help Watson? To have him inadvertently inform on me so you would know my every move, particularly as you wished to see my demise take place at the Reichenbach Falls.” He pensively strokes his chin, “Who, then, one might ask, was the unfortunate individual I slew on that fateful day instead of you?”

Moriarty sniffs again, “Miles Milverton. A music hall entertainer, addicted to opium. His face did require a little surgery, however. A nick here, a nick there. The final result was astounding. But he was far from satisfied with his new appearance which made him look much older. Needless to say, his performance, posing as me, was exceptional. It certainly fooled you.”

Holmes concurs, “A remarkable performance indeed, including his death.”

Moriarty sneers, “If he had disposed of you as intended, then the Whitechapel murders would not have been necessary. But given that he failed me, I was forced to devise an alternative plan. Quite ingenious of me, don’t you think?”

Holmes ignores his smugness, “Therefore, in order to manipulate and thwart my every movement throughout your appalling crimes, you decided to retain Watson as your medical associate and use him against me surreptitiously. You knew I would confide in him my innermost thoughts about the murders, and if solicitously prompted by you, he might, in gratitude for your support, innocently reveal those thoughts to you. Watson, poor fellow, had been recruited by you as an unwitting informer. As an additional precaution, and to ensure that I would be held at bay should I learn your true identity, you had also devised a plan to abduct him, which, of course, you eventually did.”

Quickly stooping, Moriarty snatches the blade from the ground, “You gave this to me, Mr Holmes. Now I intend to return it to you.
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Quid pro quo.”

Holmes chides him, “Hardly a wise move.” Wrapped in a piece of newspaper, he removes an object from the inside pocket of his overcoat. Unwrapping the object, he reveals the Liston surgical knife, “This instrument was left behind at 13 Miller’s Court. Like you, I also intend to return it to its owner, Moriarty.”

Moriarty chuckles to himself, “Well spoken, Mr Holmes. It will be a sad day when an Englishman cannot laugh at his executioner.”

Holmes quips, “It rather depends if your head is on the block, or not, Moriarty.”

Moriarty snarls, “If there is one thing I loathe more than my aging body, it is your sardonic tongue, Mr Holmes.”

Dropping the piece of newspaper and holding the Liston knife, Holmes advances on Moriarty, “I believe the boat, your means of escape, lies below us, floating on the water. But how do you intend to get to it? There is no way down from here to the river.”

Moriarty snarls again, “In addition to thwarting the crime of the century, your effrontery galls me. Why you are at liberty when you should be locked-up at Bishopsgate Street Police Station, the Devil only knows. But then that is our genius, is it not? One minute we are caught and the next minute we are free.” In rapid succession, he pushes over each of the upright scaffold boards, which topple forward and crash to the ground in front of Holmes, forcing him to step back. Partially obscured by a cloud of granite dust rising from the floor, Moriarty hurriedly limps up a flight of steep stone steps, leading to what is essentially the large parapet roof of the tower.

Fanning aside the dust with his hand, Holmes coughs and then bounds up the steps in pursuit of his quarry. Reaching the top of the steps, he immediately halts, gazing up at a large wrought iron girder, some thirty feet in the air, suspended from a pulley by a length of groaning rope. From the pulley, the rope stretches down to an industrial hand-cranked winch, close to where he stands. Shifting his gaze to the ratchet of the winch, Holmes knows that if he were to remove the device, it would release the rope and bring the girder hurtling down.

Suddenly emerging from the other side of the winch, Moriarty swipes at Holmes with the blade, slicing through his heavy woollen scarf, wrapped loosely about his throat. Instinctively clutching his throat with one hand, Holmes strikes out at Moriarty, slashing the back of his clenched hand with the Liston knife. Moriarty howls in pain, dropping his weapon to the ground. Hurriedly removing his ripped scarf, Holmes tensely fingers the toughened leather collar he is wearing about his neck, which, although scored in the front, has protected him from certain death.

Quickly kicking the blade to one side with his foot, Holmes again punches Moriarty in the face, sending him reeling across the roof, back against the parapet wall, “Regardless of social class, life is exceedingly precious. But in your case, Moriarty, I am prepared to make an exception.”

Losing blood from his nose, his right hand and thigh, Moriarty, however, remains defiant, “Of course life is precious, Mr Holmes, especially when it happens to be your own. But for the majority of our species, better they had not been born at all. Their worthless lives, tainted by prejudice, serve only to hinder our intellect. The six women I slew, including my loathsome accomplice, were simply flotsam on the river of life, but through death they have gained recognition. And who has bestowed upon them such unwarranted fame? Not I, Mr Holmes, for I was merely the instrument of death. Vile as those wretched women were, they are now venerated by a hypocritical society which abandoned them in the first place. A society, I might add, that you put great emphasis on, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes rejoins, “There is an element of truth in what you say, Moriarty, but it does not alter the fact that you are quite mad,”